Rafe Mendez, 59, wiped the last smudge of typewriter oil off his work jeans before pushing through the taproom’s screen door, the smell of hop resin and fried pretzels hitting him square in the chest. It was 6:47 PM, same time he showed up every Wednesday, no exceptions. He’d just finished rebuilding the shift mechanism on a 1951 Underwood No. 5 for a college kid in Portland, his knuckles still raw from prying out a rusted pin, and all he wanted was a cold hazy IPA, to stand at the far end of the bar for 20 minutes, then head home to his leftover meatloaf and the western marathon on TCM. The bartender slid his usual across the scuffed pine without asking, and Rafe nodded, already reaching for his wallet, when a hard elbow jostled his left arm. A splash of peach hard cider sloshed over the rim of the glass the stranger was holding, cold and sticky against his wrist.
He bit back the sharp retort he’d been ready to snap, lifting his gaze. The woman in front of him was a few inches shorter than his 5’10 frame, silver streaks cutting through her dark wavy hair, a faded animal shelter volunteer tee stretched across her shoulders, a thin scar slicing through her left eyebrow. Her calloused fingers wrapped around a crumpled paper napkin immediately, dabbing at his wrist before he could protest, her touch warm even through the thin paper. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” she said, laughing a little, a rough, warm sound that made the back of his neck tingle. “These college kids are running around like their heads are on fire, I got shoved right into you. I’m Lila. I recognize you, right? You fixed my mom’s old Royal a couple years back, she still talks about how you left a handwritten note with care instructions taped to the case.”